


Feel No Evil

by paradoxCase



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chucklevoodoos, Depression, Dream Bubble, Gen, M/M, Mindfuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxCase/pseuds/paradoxCase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat goes looking for Gamzee in dream bubbles; he finds Kurloz instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for a kink meme prompt that was very similar to the summary.

These days, your time is mostly spent waiting for dream bubbles to fade in and out of existence. You can't deal with Strider's bullshit right now, you've said everything you have to say to Kanaya and Terezi, and you've never had much to say to Rose beyond _at least you're nothing like Vriska_ , which isn't exactly friendly. You almost wish Vriska was still around, actually - at least you'd have someone to yell at who wasn't past you. Or Sollux. You'd murder someone and sacrifice their body to the tentacled horrorterrors if you thought it would make Sollux somehow appear on this rock so you could have stupid fucking arguments about who was more depressed and self-loathing.

Ha. Maybe if you really get into the casual homicide, _he'll_ come back. Maybe you could be pale murderbuddies, or something.

If Gamzee is even still on the meteor he is hiding too well for you to find him, and he hasn't been in any of the dream bubbles, either. You've been in and out of what feels like a million of them, and you've seen everyone else as well of a whole lot of people you don't even know, but never Gamzee. In the past sweep, you've gone from idly hoping that Gamzee would appear in the next bubble to sitting up on the roof all the time because you know it's probably your best bet for seeing him again any time soon. Maybe it just means that he's alive and awake in every single instance of the universe, even the doomed ones. Maybe you're just really unlucky.

But when the next one breaks, the shimmery translucent barrier swallowing you up and warping reality along with it, somehow, he's _there_. Facing away and in shadow, but you'd know those horns anywhere, and it's _so good_ to see him again. You get to your feet and throw yourself at him, because who knows how long this bubble will last and you're a little afraid that it's not real and he's going to disappear if you don't act quickly.

As soon as you wrap your arms around him you can tell that something's off. He's taller than you remember, and skinnier (you didn't think that was possible, but apparently it is). For one terrifying moment you wonder if maybe it's just been so long since that first jam that you've forgotten everything you thought you knew about him, but then you pull back to get a better look.

His facepaint is different, and his mouth - his mouth is _sewn shut_ , the holes that encircle his motionless lips clean and bloodless, healed over sweeps ago. He's wearing a bodysuit with a skeleton on it, maybe to go with his skinnier-than-fuck schtick he's got now. He's stone white-eyed dead, too, but you kind of expected that. Your mouth is open to ask him what the hell happened, but then your eyes go back to the face under the paint, and you realize: it's not him. Somehow, the universe has conspired to create _two_ crazed juggalo clowns, and you found the wrong one.

He raises a single finger to his mutilated lips. _Shhh._ And then he takes your face in his hands.

\-----

The pile is soft and warm, and the sensation of the blankets and pillows on your skin is far more comforting than anything has a right to be. You don't know where you are - it feels like _home_ , but somehow not your hive, which always brought you anxiety that the neighbors might discover your secret - but that's not important right now. What's important is that Gamzee is there with you; he's got his face buried in your shirt (getting paint all over you clothes, but again, not important, you barely notice), arms around you and snuggled close, touching at almost every point. You feel the cool touch of his body everywhere, contrasting the warmth of the room and the pile, and even that light touch where the edge of his horn brushes your cheek is almost more tangible and real than anything has ever been.

And you feel - you feel intense _joy_ , joy and _peace_ and _safety_ and _comfort_ and _home_ , that strange idea you've never really known but can still recognize as a pure emotion. You want to stay her forever, wherever _here_ is, you want to be here with him forever and you want to hear him call you _best friend_ and tell you to chill the fuck out.

"Gamzee," you say, your voice shaky and giddy with too many feelings. " _Gamzee_ \--"

But then he raises his face, and his paint isn't even smudged, and his lips are sewn shut, and you feel like you should remember that from somewhere but your pan is too full of _feelings_ right now, and he raises a hand that you can still clearly feel on the back of your neck and puts his finger to his lips and says

_Shhh_

\-----

You break away from the touch, stumbling backwards until you fall over your own feet and land flat on your ass. Not-Gamzee is still there, still inscrutable, and you realize suddenly that it's fully light enough here to see him in detail, but somehow not enough to make out your surroundings. More accurately: you can't bring yourself to focus on them. Your pan still buzzes with feelings to the point where they paint themselves on edges of your vision, but the illusion is mostly gone and your memory is unimpaired. Well, as unimpaired as you remember it being, which might not mean a whole lot anymore.

You grasp at some words that are appropriate for this situation, but the ones you really want can't make it to your lips through the strong residual _calm safe comfort home love_ still running through you, so you have to settle for something dumb. "You can't-- you can't make him _talk_? You can't make him talk but you can simulate-- you can simulate stuff with-- with--" You have no more words, so you flail your arms instead.

Feelings invade your head again, sharper and with more purpose, nearly tangible and physical, like you can hold them in your hands. They shift and roll and mold themselves into a word, meanings and connotations created out of pure emotion from nowhere:

FEELS?

"Yeah, sure, 'feels'." The odd term makes sense in a way; _feelings_ are things that make some kind of fucking sense, that follow from real things instead of _becoming_ real things, not-- not whatever the fuck this is. Feels.

You feel the sharp emotions cutting through your thoughts again, not just meaning now, but syntax and structure, too. You close your eyes and let them; how else are you going to communicate with an idiot who sews his fucking mouth shut?

YOU ARE LOOKING FOR YOUR MOIRAIL? YOU WANT COMFORT AND COMPANIONSHIP? YOU FELT

You remember how you felt, but now you also experience it again, the crushing defeat and pointlessness of it all, the way nothing you could think of doing would give you even a bit of enjoyment. It smothers you like a blanket and strangles you, layered on top of the still-very-present _joy love home_ and giving you mental whiplash and a vertigo that's hard to think around. It's like being continually buried in falling boxes, or rolling down a set of stairs, forever.

"I know!" You say, desperately. "I know what I felt like! You don't have to remind me!" All the feelings subside, taper off to manageable levels, and you can sort of think properly again.

You climb carefully to your feet, a hand on the ground to steady yourself, but you never look away from his face. Your caution and wariness are yours alone; even if they didn't make perfect sense, they are mere glimmers of reflections to the cascade of brilliant sunlight that sifted through your pan in the last few minutes. The way your heart skips when you look at him again from eye level is all yours, too, and the way he seems to be Gamzee for a moment isn't just an illusion. It's more than the paint and the horns; he might be a different person, but you can see the similarities too, in the shape of his face and in the small smile he's giving you through his stitches. You want to hold him close and pap the shit out of him, and you know none of those feelings are chucklevoodoo bullshit, because they're all you've ever felt for Gamzee himself.

"He never came back," you say. "He never fucking _came back_."

He doesn't respond, which is a relief, but something in his solemn expression seems to say _I know_. You stand there for a minute, gathering your thoughts. What happiness is there to be found in your own recent feelings, anyway? What is left in the real, waking world for four (or maybe three) trolls with no matriorb drifting through a fathomless void to a universe with no place for them?

"Can you make him talk?" You ask again. "Or is that some kind of bogus religious taboo you have?" A second after you say it, you are petrified with (completely rational, and therefore probably real) fear that you might have offended him.

But he only nods, and then shakes his head. _Yes I can make him talk. No it's not a taboo._

You take a moment, but you don't really need it - you've already made your decision. "Do it."

Before the _feels_ completely swallow your pan again, they form a single sentence across your consciousness:

MINE NEVER REALLY CAME BACK, EITHER.

\-----

When you wake up, your block feels strangely empty and silent, and your pan feels clear, washed clean and new, lighter than it's been for a long while now. Odd - you must have fallen asleep waiting for the bubble, but you don't know how you would have gotten back to your block. Maybe you dreamt it; flickering on the edges of your consciousness are vague memories of wonderful and intensely real dreams. Too bad you can't seem to remember any of them.

Sleep, or dreams, or something else has seemingly refreshed you; for the first time in a long while you can look up and see just a glimmer of future possibility, or even hope.

Maybe you'll find Gamzee today.


End file.
